Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

I served goblets of sweet wines and silver dishes of sweetmeats and frumentaries. My mistress was a born actor, playing the part, the gracious queen, the gentle hostess. I recalled those accounts I had drawn up for the plays to be staged at Easter: ‘Pontius Pilate paid five shillings. Demons one shilling and fourpence. The man who imitated a cock crowing, fourpence. The drapers who acted the end of the world, three shillings. The person who kept the fire at hell’s mouth, fourpence.’ I reflected on these as I watched my mistress closely. She was acting. She saw everything as a play: the various parts were assigned, the roles to be played, and she had to deliver her lines. She was a mistress of the moment, the dramatic change, the subtle tone. She allowed Marigny to treat her as if she was some infant babbling away, then abruptly put her goblet down and leaned back in her chair.

‘My Lord Marigny, tell my father I may not be enceinte. I deeply regret, but perhaps I will not bear a child, at least this year.’

Marigny’s eyes fluttered. He slurped noisily at the goblet and glanced sharply at me as if wondering whether this had been a trap all along.

‘I wish now,’ Isabella’s voice became hard, ‘to move to another matter. Alexander of Lisbon, are you enjoying that wine?’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Do you know it is poisoned?’

The Portuguese almost dropped the goblet but grasped it in time. Marigny leaned forward, hand extended; Isabella fluttered her fingers and he quickly withdrew.

‘Your grace,’ the Portuguese gabbled, ‘you are joking?’

‘Think, sir,’ Isabella continued, ‘Mathilde here poured the wine. She distilled a concoction in yours.’ She sipped from her own goblet. ‘Do you feel the effects, an irritation in your stomach?’

Alexander of Lisbon’s dark face creased in concern. He licked his lips and put the goblet down.

‘Your grace would not poison me?’

‘Why not?’ Isabella retorted.

Marigny sat, eyes darting from Isabella to me then back again.

‘Your grace, what is this? I am your father’s envoy.’

‘So you are, Monsieur Marigny. You wage war against my husband and his favourite, as do I, you know that.’ Isabella smoothed over the lie. ‘You bring this man here to do your bidding. Is that not so, Alexander of Lisbon?’

The Portuguese nodded. He was now clutching his stomach, staring agitatedly at my mistress.

‘I think we should talk about Mathilde, Monsieur Marigny,’ Isabella continued. ‘You are her enemy. She is yours. We both know the reason why. Last month, Alexander of Lisbon, your men, under a Burgundian named La Maru, were quartered in her mother’s farm: Catherine de Clairebon of Bretigny, do you remember that? Swiftly now, and I might tell you how to heal yourself.’

Alexander of Lisbon nodded quickly.

‘That must stop,’ Isabella said quietly. ‘Do you understand me, Monsieur Marigny? That shall stop! You, sir, if you have dealings with Mathilde de Clairebon, deal solely with her, like two warriors in a list, but her mother, an ageing widow — surely, sir, the rules of combat exclude her?’

Marigny half smiled. ‘And my companion,’ he asked, ‘Alexander of Lisbon? Is he to fall ill like Master Guido, to vomit and retch? How would your husband explain that? What does that say of you, mistress?’

‘Do I have your word,’ Isabella insisted, ‘that Catherine de Clairebon of Bretigny will not be abused or ill treated?’

‘I cannot say. . I. . I do not know. .’ Marigny paused. Alexander, white-faced, was clutching his stomach in apparent discomfort.

‘Yes you do,’ Isabella insisted, ‘as will my father in my next letter to him. I will tell him that is my wish. Catherine de Clairebon is to be treated most tenderly and fall within his love as she must within yours, Monsieur de Marigny! Do I have your word? If I do not, your friend and companion will certainly fall ill. I shall still write to my father explaining how you frustrated my wishes. Do I have your word?’

Marigny shrugged. ‘Your grace, provided your father agrees, you have my word.’

‘And you, Monsieur Alexander?’ Isabella turned, all smiles, and the Portuguese, hand on his stomach, stared fearfully at her. ‘Do I have yours?’

‘Yes, your grace,’ he gasped.

‘And this La Maru — he has now come from France? He is with you here in England?’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘He is to be dismissed from your company immediately, without stipend or payment. Do you agree?’

Alexander of Lisbon looked quickly at Marigny, who nodded imperceptibly.

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Good.’ Isabella rose to her feet, walked across to a side table and poured a beaker full of water, then took it back and thrust it into the Portuguese’s hand. ‘Drink, Alexander.’ She patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘You have nothing more than a mustard paste in your stomach. No, no.’ She daintily held up a hand to fend off his protest. ‘The point I am trying to make is that this time what you drank was innocent; it will cause some discomfort, but it will pass. Next time, Alexander of Lisbon, if you try to hurt Catherine de Clairebon or any of her family and friends in France, the potion you shall drink will be deadly.’

Isabella sat back on the throne-like chair, hands folded across her stomach. She smiled sweetly at her two guests.

‘You see, Monsieur Marigny, I too have power and influence. If I cannot protect those I love, what princess am I? What queen am I? Reflect carefully on what I have said and done today. Moreover, what can you do: protest to my father in Paris? He’ll be angry, but in his secret chamber, he will reflect and laugh behind his hand at what happened. And you, Master Alexander — do you want to tell your company how you were tricked and deceived by a mere girl and her maid?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. You delivered a warning to Mathilde. I have delivered one back. I have drawn a line; cross that line and we will be enemies. Observe the truce, and so shall I. You see, Monsieur Marigny,’ Isabella held her hands up, clasping them together as if in prayer, ‘what my husband and Lord Gaveston do is one concern; what happens in my own household is another. You must observe the division, you must observe the line. Do I have your word?’

Marigny cocked his head to one side and stared impudently at my mistress as if assessing her for the first time.

‘Your grace,’ he leaned forward, ‘do you wish to have further words with us? My companion, as you can see, is distressed and we should retire.’

‘I have spoken what I wish, Monsieur Marigny. You and Alexander of Lisbon may withdraw.’

Marigny and the Portuguese rose to their feet. The Lord Satan bowed. He was about to turn away but, of course, he had to say it, end our meeting with some subtle flattery.

‘Your grace,’ he smiled, ‘now I can see you are truly your father’s daughter.’

‘And so I am, Monsieur Marigny,’ Isabella replied, ‘and you must remember that. I tell you this.’ Her voice thrilled slightly. ‘Monsieur Marigny, you should look to yourself and to your own. You tie yourself to my father’s belt, and if he rises, you rise with him, but have you ever thought what happens when he falls, if he falls?’

Marigny looked shocked, as if he had never contemplated such a possibility.

‘You should be careful, Monsieur Marigny. The world is changing, and so must you. I bid you adieu.’

Once they had gone, Isabella leaned forward, face in her hands, and giggled quietly to herself. She let her fingers fall away.

‘Well, Mathilde, did we do well?’

‘Very well, your grace, very well indeed.’

Isabella took a deep breath and sighed noisily.